


The crown, the sky and the portrait

by redsnake05



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Adventure, Ettinsmoor and Other Northern Lands, First Kiss, M/M, Magic, Romance, Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-24 23:26:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12023280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsnake05/pseuds/redsnake05
Summary: Peter journeys under the clear Northern sky, and finds a way to be both man and king, as he and Peridan face dire peril.





	The crown, the sky and the portrait

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snitchnipped](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snitchnipped/gifts).



> I hope this explores your itch to hear more about Peter's relationship with the North. Beta read by M.

Peter stood at the top of the North Tower and let the redness of the sunset wash over him with familiar warmth. He'd faced no disasters this day: no rebellions, no lingering witch-sickness, no ruinous reports of dragons, droughts or direwolves. Their neighbours were peaceful, and there were no rumours of war or trickery. He should have felt the sun illuminating him with satisfaction and contentment. The joy of Narnia was a sweet and uncomplicated thing this spring, and surely that was something to savour.

The truth was, though, as he looked out over the green hills and valleys, carved deep in the westering light, that he wasn't at peace. His land might be flourishing, but he felt stifled and restless in a way he'd never experienced before, and wasn't quite sure how to express. The step on the stairs behind him was familiar, and he didn't turn. His eyes kept scanning the horizon like he expected something to magically appear to answer a question he couldn't even say to himself.

"I'll be down for dinner later, Susan," he said. 

"I'll be sure to tell her," said Lucy, and he whirled around to see his youngest sister standing there instead. She grinned at him, and he realised, with an inward start, that she had grown a lot in the last years, and there was little left of the child in her now, for all that she hadn't really changed at all. 

"Sorry," he said. 

"Sorry, indeed," Lucy said. "You must have been wool-gathering, as I made it nearly all the way up before you heard me."

"I think I was," Peter said. It was a nice word for what he'd been doing. Wool-gathering, however mindless, at least resulted in wool.

"We don't have to go down for dinner yet," Lucy said. She crossed to the parapet and sat down on a little bench in the sun, and turned her face up to it. "Tell me about these castles in the air you've been building."

Peter shook his head. "I haven't even got the foundations."

"Most people start with the fancy bits like the audience chamber and the turrets, and maybe the vexed question of gargoyles," Lucy said. "I suppose we might have a different opinion on the necessary parts to start with."

Peter smiled and shook his head again. Lucy was exactly the sort of person to consider what order one's imaginary castles were built in.

"But you're not really up here dreaming of castles, are you? You had a fidgety little look on your face when you turned."

"I am the High King," Peter protested. "You cannot say that I look fidgety."

"Well, it's rude to say you look squirrely," Lucy said. "The dear little things don't like it, and who can blame them? Now stop avoiding the question and tell me."

"There is nothing wrong," Peter said, turning to look out over the land and swinging his arm in a wide, all-encompassing sweep. "Our land is bright green and alive, and there are no plagues of locusts, no attempted coups, and the rainfall has been delightfully even and conducive to a good planting season."

"You're bored," said Lucy. To his astonishment, she didn't sound particularly scandalised, or even surprised. "I thought so."

"How did you know?" Peter asked, realising that it was true. "Even I didn't know I was bored."

She waved a hand airily and looked mysterious, and then spoiled the regal impression by laughing. "Just like Aslan's not a tame lion," she said. "You're the High King, and you belong to the clear northern sky. Why do you think Aslan gave you to it? He never does anything without reason."

He looked back at Lucy, who had tipped her face up to the sun with her eyes closed. She didn't open them as she continued, "I get to dance under the moon at the small country festivals, and be Lucy. Susan is just Susan as she swims with the naiads in the summer migration to the cool highlands. Edmund is himself when when he visits the halls of the dwarves in winter to learn to forge. You're always the High King, Peter. When was the last time you were just you?"

Peter pondered this. He wasn't sure how his youngest sister had ended up with such a clear understanding of something he didn't fully grasp himself. He could see, though, how each of his siblings had found a place or time to be themselves, a person among people, and how he didn't have that. He realised, rather awkwardly, that he'd thought of Lucy's love for the small and cozy parts of Narnia as affection for the cute and quaint; a child's appreciation of a dollhouse, say, who could not imagine the whole workings of a house. He saw now that her love was complex, and the homely little corners of Narnia were rich and deep to match, and he was the one who had lacked breadth of vision. It was a sobering reflection.

"Come, you don't have to run off into the wild blue yonder just yet," said Lucy, after a while. "We should have a nice dinner together first, at least."

"True, and probably I should pack some food," Peter said. "I should not like to be completely unprepared. The Lion helps those who help themselves, as they say."

"Very true; I imagine you should pack all manner of depressingly practical things, like rope and waterproof matches," Lucy agreed. "But let us start with dinner."

Peter nodded and held out his hand to help her up. As she curtseyed to him very prettily, he squeezed her fingers gently. He understood at least some of his disquiet now. He found the longing for adventure waiting for him, as if he had seen it a thousand times but not known what to call it. He had a name for it now, and a vision of the uncharted North to go with it. He would be Peter the man for a while, and it would be simple.

"Thanks," he said. "You've given me a lot to think about."

"I'm glad," Lucy said. "Please wait until after dinner to start talking about boring things like tents."

>>>>

Between thought and outcome was always strategy, Edmund had told Peter once. Peter, not a natural planner, had always been frustrated by his insistence on lists and supply lines and budgets. He had reluctantly come to admit the necessity of preparation, but he couldn't agree that it was satisfying. It had, however, stopped him from running out of Cair Paravel in the middle of the night with not even a handkerchief, to seek his fortune in the North.

It was not indecision or lack of strategic forethought that was stopping Peter from going North. The reason he gave was the entirely unexpected onslaught of spring rains, which had so far caused some minor surface flooding, a few slips, and a lot of cursing when one needed clean, dry socks. Peter found two under his bed that were merely grimy and pulled them on. He needed to get outside, and it wasn't like he was going to bring the socks back clean anyway. Even a castle wasn't big enough to cope with being trapped inside every day for a week.

He slipped out a side door and through a gate at the back of the orchard. Walking across the meadow was like wading in green shallows, with spring flowers and bright grass clinging to his knees, and the grey sky hanging low above. The rain wasn't too heavy, but enough that he was glad to have his hood to enclose him a little. He pushed it back as he reached the first trees and let them shelter him instead. Looking back over the darker path he'd made through the meadow, he let himself feel his solitude. He could admit to himself the real reason he was still at Cair Paravel, and not on his way North; he wanted someone to go with him. Someone who saw him as a person, not as a High King.

It was wet even inside the woods, and Peter watched his feet with care on the slippery path that wound up the hill. It was still, a muffled kind of a day, and he enjoyed the quiet. He concentrated on the placement of his feet, the vivid green of spring leaves, and the soft drip of rain through the thin canopy. He'd walked this way many times before. The path was rough and winding, and led up to a little clearing that looked out over the sea, down to Cair Paravel, across to the main road inland; it was just far away enough to give perspective. Peter liked to go up there often, but he seldom came this way when it was wet. The soft, damp chill of the world was something he'd not experienced often, and he found himself taking pleasure in the unexpected.

He came out at the top of the hill and looked first over the sea. It looked to be a grey and white monolith that blended without edge into the equally wet sky. The castle was an incongruously sunny soft yellow in its dull surroundings, and he was both sorry and glad he wasn't in his room with a hot cup of tea and a book. Turning his back to the sea, he looked at the grass stretching down a steep hillside to the road, where it came briefly out of the woods before ducking back in on its way to Cair Paravel. 

His gaze focused on a particular patch of hillside, about halfway down, where a rich red scar in the earth told him a slip had come down just recently. It took him a moment longer to see the remnants of a carefully tended little garden area under the scattered soil, but he swore under his breath and hurried down the hillside. 

He hoped that the family living there had made it out, and that he'd find a collection of little paw prints making way into the wood or off to other shelter. As he knelt in the dirt, uncaring of his trousers, he could see no prints, but he could hear feeble scrabbling behind the torn earth.

"Hold on," he said. "I'm going to dig in from this end." A faint squeak reassured him that at least one Animal was alive in there.

Peter had learned some basic earth-craft from the Moles and Rabbits and Dwarves, and he silently hoped it would be enough to stop him making things worse. He scooped soil away from the top of where he thought the squeaks had come from, sending it flying heedlessly down the hillside. 

He hadn't worked for long when he heard a shout and the stamping of hooves down on the road. He turned his head to see a solitary rider.

"Help," he called. "The burrow has caved in."

Whoever it was on the horse didn't need lengthy explanations. He swung down immediately and tugged off his saddlebags. Peter didn't look further, turning back to the slip and keeping on digging.

The stranger appeared beside Peter at a rush and dropped to his knees also. He pulled open his saddlebags and pulled out his cooking gear. Peter looked at him, perplexed, until he realised that bits of it would be useful for digging, and for shoring up any rough little tunnels they could make.

"Keep talking to them," said the stranger. "They'll hold on better if they know we're working."

Peter could see the point in that practical suggestion, so he took the plate offered to him and started a cheerful, reassuring monologue about what they were doing. Next to him, the stranger mostly worked in silence, with an occasional muttered curse or suggestion. 

They broke through into the remnants of a tunnel quite soon, and Peter drew out the nearest Animal - a shivering, sodden Rabbit - with careful hands. He realised the tunnel was only partially collapsed from here on, and got down on his belly to get his hands in more easily. The stranger behind him took the Rabbit and wrapped it in something, making a little nest from his saddlebags and his cloak.

The tickle of a whisker and a small whimper was a relief. He'd begun to think he would find no one else alive in there. He carefully drew the Rabbit out and handed it over. He felt again in the burrow, but there was no one else there, so he heaved himself up off the sticky mud. He turned to find the stranger cradling the second Rabbit to his chest as he rummaged for another jersey to wrap him in. Peter struggled out of his coat and held it out. 

"Thank you," he said, as the man wrapped the second Rabbit in his cloak and tucked them both under the temporary shelter of his saddle bags. They needed shelter and warmth, but their little chests rose and fell freely. "I'm Peter." He held out his hand and considered the man who had helped him.

"Not at all," the other man said, his handshake firm. He was young, maybe the same age as Peter, with an open, merry face. "I'm Peridan. These Rabbits need some shelter. I was on my way to Cair Paravel; is it close?"

"Not far, along the road through the wood, or there's a shortcut through the woods if you don't mind a bit of mud. I live there."

Peridan laughed and gestured to them both. "I don't think a little mud should stop us now, do you?"

Peter laughed too, and they gathered their things together quickly and slithered down the hillside to the road. Peter found they worked well together, arranging the Rabbits safely on the horse and checking they were safe, sharing some of Peter's bread and cheese as they walked, and chatting with the ease of long companionship as they made their way along the narrow track through the wood and across the long grass back to the little back gate of the castle. A slightly scandalised bustle met them at the kitchen door, and they were shoved into a scullery so they could be thoroughly scrubbed and the Rabbits tended to without dirtying the entire castle.

Edmund found them there, perched on a bench with cups of tea and their boots off, and Peter hastily stuffed the rest of his biscuit into his mouth and prepared to make introductions. Edmund waved them away.

"No, no, don't interrupt the entirely kingly business of stuffing your face, brother," he said. "I take it that this is the Lord Peridan, son of the Lord Olivier and nephew of the Lady Thallysia, currently in our best drawing room and wondering what has become of him."

Peter realised, with an awkward and belated start, that this must be one of the Archenland nobles they were expecting, and he blurted out, "Oh dear, I should have bought you to the main gates to be officially welcomed!"

"I had a whole speech planned," said Peridan, looking equally awkward.

"I'll leave you two to decide how formally you wish to bow and scrape while I go and inform our guests that there is no need to turn out the household to search for you. Find some clean trousers and we'll be having tea - proper tea - in the drawing room in half an hour," said Edmund. He left the room with his back very straight. He'd always liked things to be proper, and Peter had never been less than proper before. He found he rather liked it.

Peter and Peridan looked at each other for just a moment longer, before both began to laugh. The Rabbits, now mostly restored, though very tired, looked confused by this odd human behaviour.

"You must have made good time over the passes," Peter said, at last. "Weren't you supposed to arrive tomorrow?"

"Yes, I met you while riding ahead to warn you of our early arrival," Peridan replied.

"Do you even have any clean trousers?"

"I have no idea."

"Come, you can borrow some of mine, until we find where your baggage is."

Leaving behind the Rabbits and a disapproving domestic staff, Peter led Peridan through the hallways to his room. He felt happier than he had in a long time, realised that they'd quite skipped over the whole High King business, and it was just possible he'd made a friend. He wondered if Peridan had ever considered travelling North.

>>>>

Peter hadn't quite believed the rumours of the City in the North, and he wasn't entirely sure he believed them now, even with the City spread out below him. He sat down at the top of the rise and looked at it. Even from this distance, he could see it was vast, empty, and harsh. It didn't really look like part of the landscape, but like it was imposed on it, like it had been built for some other time or place and then carefully, perfectly, dropped here.

"I never quite believed the stories," said Peridan, sitting down beside him. "They say, in Archenland, that she sang the city from the desert sand in the earliest days of the world, flew it through the sky on the backs of dragons, and no tree can ever grow in its courtyards."

"I would believe no tree had grown there," Peter said, "but I hope there are no dragons." He had promised to be careful, and dragons were not part of being careful. "There are no stories about this in Narnia, merely rumours the birds occasionally talk about when they think no one is listening."

"Dragons or not, I mislike the look of it," Peridan said. Peter agreed. The walls were sharp-tipped and angular, made of a deep, red-brown stone that did not fit into the grey and black of the high moorlands. He glanced and Peridan, and saw the thoughtful frown etched there, and knew that he was considering whether it was worth the risk to cross the last space and explore the city. Peter was weighing the same thing himself.

Despite the desolation around them, Peter had seldom felt as contented as he did out here, with Peridan by his side and the wide sky above them. The north wind blew more or less constantly, but he had grown to love even the sharp cut of the breeze through him, leaving him bare and open, with nothing to hide. Peridan shivered, and Peter hooked his arm around his shoulders and pulled him close, sharing the warmth of his body without thinking. It felt good to have Peridan by his side, as he had been almost constantly since their first meeting. Up here, in the North, with just themselves and the wide sky above them, it felt even better, closer, and more real.

"It seems deserted," offered Peridan. "I haven't seen a single living thing. Have you?"

"No," said Peter. "And you would think we would have seen something moving by now."

It seemed a shame to leave with the sight of the city but not to explore it. Despite his misgivings, Peter was excited at the adventure the city promised.

"We should do it. If we walk down that low ridge there," Peridan said, pointing to the west where their rise of ground tailed down into a string of hollows and isolated stands of trees, "we should be able to make it nearly to the gates without being in plain sight, just in case."

"Very practical," Peter agreed. He had come to appreciate Peridan's cool foresight as much as his ready sense of the absurd. He stood and held out his hand to help Peridan up. Peridan didn't need the assistance, but he took it anyway, and Peter let himself enjoy the feel of the soft skin of Peridan's wrist. He tried not to think of how good it felt to be able to touch someone and know that they were feeling a connection between friends, and not the touch of the king. 

They made good time, and the sun was still not at its zenith as they walked around the walls of the city. These were tall; this must have truly been a city of giants. The outer surface was smooth, with no cracks or rubble, and Peter felt uneasy about how perfect they were. He could practically feel the magic holding them together, grain by grain, and suddenly the Archenland stories were sounding more real than ever.

They finally stood in front of the huge open gates. Peter didn't much like the look of them, but he hadn't liked the look of the walls either. Peridan reached for his hand, and it felt natural to link themselves together as they walked under the arch. It wasn't even just the monumental size of everything that made them feel small and in need of the comfort of touch, but the air of age and magic binding it together.

Inside the gates it was still and quiet. The wind didn't howl in here, but there weren't any of the small noises you'd expect. They moved from courtyard to corridor to room after room, all open and empty and dead. Without the dull grey of the moorland around, it was less disconcerting to be surrounded by red-brown stone, but the dampening feeling of being in stasis was stronger. 

Finally, they halted just inside the door of what must have, once, been a throne room. There was a stone table in the middle of the room, and steps leading up to a dais. Peter felt like this was the heart of the city. Peridan stood still next to him, their hands still locked together. The subtle rustle of canvas made them jump, turning towards the sound.

They stood in front of a large painting, and Peter tipped his head trying to figure out what he saw. The foreground looked like an extension to the throne room, leading to a balcony, and beyond the railing, he saw Narnia laid out in front of him. The figure of a woman stood at the balcony, looking out over the scene. As he watched, the figure moved her hand, with the soft sound he'd heard before, and the scene in front of him changed to a new view of Narnia. Peter gasped in shock, and the rustle of the canvas was louder this time as the woman turned.

She was beautiful, but cold: ice-blue and white in a way that didn't fit the lush green of Narnia or the dry red of the city around them. Peter recognised her at once, and his fingers tightened on his sword hilt. The indrawn breath behind him told him that Peridan recognised her too.

Her lips curved in a smile of gracious hospitality. She moved forward with confidence, like the whole of the room, or the city, or the world, was hers to wander, and Peter hoped she was, in truth, trapped inside the painting.

She stopped, and the faint noise of her movement stopped also.

"Welcome, lords," she said, "to Arrith. I am delighted to receive you both into the hospitality of my city."

Peter hesitated for a moment, then bowed. Peridan followed suit. Jadis graciously inclined her head. Peter wasn't sure quite what to do, but it seemed polite to at least greet her, pretend he had no idea who she was, and escape the room as quickly as possible. 

"Greetings, lady," he said. "I fear we have disturbed you at some matter of importance."

"Not at all," she said. "I have so few visitors in my cruel exile that I am quite enchanted by the interruption."

Peter grimly hoped that there was no way she could actually enchant _them_.

"Nonetheless, I am afraid we cannot stay," he said, "delighted though we are to have met such a hospitable hostess at the centre of such a beautiful city."

She looked at them without speaking for a moment, and Peter let hope bloom that perhaps she would let them go free. 

"No, I do not think you will leave," she said. "Or, at least, not yet. There is much that you and I must speak of, High King of Narnia."

He stiffened, and heard Peridan gasp quietly behind him. Jadis laughed and waved her hand, and the scene in the painting changed behind her. Peter saw two fauns skip out the very gates of Cair Paravel, hauling a picnic basket, followed more slowly by the tall figure of his older sister. Jadis laughed again, and he quickly schooled his face back into impassivity.

"Oh, I know exactly who you are, and what you've done, and it seems right that the very king who was at my death should be the one to preside over my rebirth."

Peter risked a glance at Peridan. He was pale, but his lips were firmly closed and his hand stayed close to his sword hilt. Their eyes met, and Peridan seemed to silently pledge himself to whatever course Peter chose. Peter chose diplomacy first.

"Rebirth? Death? I do not clearly follow," he said.

"Do not play the fool with me," Jadis said. "I've watched this land since it was made. I know what has happened there, and what is happening, and what will come, better than you. But you know who I am, and what I am to Narnia."

Peter decided to drop the pretense. "Yes, Jadis, last Queen of Charn, I know who you are, and that is why we will be leaving."

"I think not," Jadis said. "You will give me the rebirth I crave."

Peter turned, not wanting to be drawn into an argument, but the faint rustle of canvas made him glance back, hoping that he wasn't about to be cursed to stone. Jadis's triumphant smile made him reach for Peridan instinctively, but his companion was not stone either, though his fingers clutched Peter's tightly. Peter looked for the source of Jadis's smugness, and saw that the picture of Narnia had changed again, and not for the better. The picnic basket lay forgotten on the path as Susan and the other faun knelt beside a little body. 

"I could do that all day," Jadis said, contentment and threat colouring her voice. "And I will, if you do not release me."

Peter decided that prudence dictated acquiescence, and he turned back to the painting. He had no idea if the scene being played out behind her was true or not, or just what she meant by rebirth, but he could not risk returning home to a country destroyed. There must be a way they could destroy her; they just had to find it.

"Good," Jadis said, as she saw him turn back, "you begin to learn sense. It is even better that you brought a companion. Not that I would not be happy with you sacrificing your life for me, but it will be much better for you to live as your companion dies."

"Whatever you wish from me, leave my companion out of it," Peter said. "He has no place in your schemes."

"Oh, but he does. Such love between you is no doubt beautiful, but that will only make the sacrifice all the sweeter for me."

"What sacrifice?" Peter asked, though he could hazard a guess as to what was needed to get out of the canvas. He wished he had more time to think; surely there was a way to destroy the painting, or to destroy her in the painting, but he feared that any move to go to his pack and retrieve his tinderbox, say, would result in more deaths.

"How do you think I'm getting out of this, fool boy?" she asked. 

Peridan tugged on Peter's hand, urging him to turn, and Peter found his arms encircling Peridan's shoulders. It felt good, and when Peridan lifted his face, Peter found it equally natural to kiss him. Peridan returned the kiss, and Peter forgot all danger in the sweetness of the moment. Then Peridan moved, bringing their bodies into better alignment, and Peter found a hot flame of desire sparked between them. It was unexpected and completely unsurprising both. One of Peter's hands tangled in Peridan's hair as they clung together, their soft gasps lost into each other's mouths. Then he felt the cold steel of a knife and pulled back to see Peridan, hands hidden from Jadis's view between them, holding a knife. In that moment, Peter would have welcomed the swift slide of the blade into his throat or ribs, and would have died alongside his lover. He knew he couldn't, and he could see from Peridan's face that he knew it too.

"This is what it means to be a king," said Peridan. 

"I would be happy to be a man in your arms for the rest of my life," Peter replied. Peridan smiled faintly and moved the knife, bringing it low between their bodies, readying it to strike.

"Walk me back, to the painting," Peridan said, while his eyes begged Peter to trust him. "I would see you for as long as may be."

Knife still hidden between them, Peter turned them slowly, carefully, and walked them back towards where Jadis waited. Her face was written with triumph, and a certain cruel satisfaction in achieving it through the destruction of their love. Peter hated her, but pushed it down. He would experience every last moment of love between himself and Peridan, as strongly as he could, and let that be his shield. From love would come joy that could tear through Jadis's schemes.

At last, Peridan's shoulders brushed the canvas and Jadis stood behind him, as close to the foreground as she could. Peter yearned to take her throat in his hands, but he knew that he would only scrabble fruitlessly on the canvas. 

"Come on," Jadis hissed. "Turn him, and let your knife pierce his heart."

Peter felt that no knife could hurt as much as letting go of Peridan, but he leaned forward and kissed his lips once more, uncaring that Jadis was watching with avarice, and thinking only of pouring all the love of what could have been, and should have been, into the kiss.

"Now," said Peridan. Peter devoutly hoped that Peridan knew what he was doing, but he felt that they were both just desperately wishing at this point. Peridan spun around and was breast to breast with Jadis as Peter's knife slid smoothly between his ribs. As Peridan gasped, the painting's magic took hold of him, and his own knife came up. Jadis's smile dropped from her face as red bloomed from her belly upwards and she missed her chance to step out of the painting in Peridan's place. Peridan's body dropped to the floor, and he burst into the painting, pulling his knife free of Jadis's body only to stab and stab again.

Peter ran for the packs, sure at last what he needed to do. His tinderbox came to his hands quickly, and he blessed the efficiency of the dwarves as he stumbled back to the painting and set a tiny flame to the lower edge. It caught quickly, almost eagerly, like the canvas itself wanted to die. Jadis's screams doubled as the flames licked her feet, and then the whole centre of the painting went up with a roar, consuming her bleeding body.

Peridan stumbled back from the flames, seeking the unburned edges. Peter ran to him, and reached out, feeling only the roughness of the canvas under his fingers.

"I never thought I would be the one to leave you," said Peridan.

"I love you," said Peter. He leaned forward, for the last time, and kissed Peridan once more, the third time, a charm, and stumbled back as the flames engulfed the last part of the canvas. He slumped over Peridan's body and pressed their last kiss to those lips, breathing out their shared last breath into the lifeless body. 

Peter leapt back, dragging his sword from his scabbard, as Peridan's body twitched and his chest rose and fell in a shaky breath. Was this a last trick from Jadis, that she could inhabit Peridan's body? Then Peridan opened his eyes, and smiled, and it was the sweet, utterly unselfconscious grin that Peter had grown to love. He sheathed his sword again before dropping back on his knees.

"You are always a king, Peter," said Peridan. "An ordinary man would have flung his sword aside."

"I am always a king," agreed Peter. "But your eyes see more than that."

"The king must think of his kingdom," said Peridan, "and help us from this place."

Peter realised he was right; the noise around them was not of flames, but similarly destructive. The city was crumbling around them. He helped Peridan to his feet and shouldered their gear before leading them as quickly as possible through the falling city. The red desert stone fell in jagged bursts, or simply swirled away, and they staggered through the huge front gates to safety just as the arch broke and fell at their heels. Peter looked on a ruined city of dark grey stone, looking like it was carved from these bleak northern highlands, and he could barely believe the towering red-brown walls had been there at all. Peter doubted, for a moment, whether there had ever been a city of red stone, and a witch, and a desperate decision to be made.

He knew that it would be easy to forget everything that had happened; there was no city, and there had been no witch. Looking at Peridan, who stood equally still and doubtful, he knew that he did not want to forget a thing. Instead, he turned from the city and drew Peridan into his arms. This kiss wasn't an awakening, or a farewell. It was the first step on a new path, with the promise of many more adventures to be had together. A rare ray of sunlight broke through the grey northern clouds, and it felt like a promise.

"I will never leave you," said Peter.

"I will keep you always," said Peridan. The words came easily to their lips, though they both knew they were part-truths at best. Neither one cared. They could live their lives under the uneasiness of the crown, knowing the complexity of it inside and out. Peter let the happiness bloom inside him, and felt content.


End file.
